Amelia had a habit of spending the month of May on yachts in Monaco, and when one has spent hours in the sun, it is only natural that she crave the heat of nightlife as a continuance of the environment she has inhabited by day.
Fortunately, Amelia’s circle was such that at least one of the ladies was sober enough by morning to rise early and practice her yoga, before sitting in the sauna and rousing the rest of their crew. This woman was rarely Amelia, but she could be depended upon to have at least one beachfront jog before the month was over.
Today was not that day. Amelia had been dragged aboard a long white ship by Candy, and she was nearly certain neither she nor her friend knew its owner. Where the rest of their company had gone, she was not in the state of mind to wonder – they would all rendezvous for dinner and drinks by five, and she was doubtful she would not hear their shrieks of laughter and see the rainbow of their bikinis sparkling in the water before too long.
Amelia lay atop a lounge chair, a straw hat covering her head and shoulders. She had cast her top aside, preferring to avoid the tan lines for which her mother had to berated her growing up, and had closed her eyes. She might have slept, but Candy was an incessant conversationalist, and the sluggishness worming its way through her bloodstream seemed to have found its end in splitting her head in two.
“Feeling badly?” Candy asked sympathetically, after Amelia did not respond for a very long time.
Amelia waved her hand in the general direction of Candy’s voice. “Not even a little.”
Candy laughed, and Amelia heard the whisper of her magazine pages turning.
“Perhaps some water, mademoiselle,” offered the waiter.
“Perhaps some champagne,” she replied.
“Oh! Me too.” Candy said. “But make mine pink.”
“She doesn’t want rosé,” Amelia called after the waiter, knowing his confusion all too well. “Just add food dye.”
“No, not food dye!” Amelia peered at Candy from beneath the corner of her sunhat. The magazine hid her lips, open in agony, aghast at the idea of consuming anything that might wreck her sixteen-day streak as a gluten-and-dairy-free-farm-to-table vegan. Amelia had declined to inform her friend that Candy had begged her mother’s assistant to fly her a cheeseburger and shake from an obscure Texas chain the night prior – the name was something odd, whatever-burgers? – no care for her vigilant veganism then.
Amelia sat up. She had not been raised to cower in the shade on beautiful days. She checked her makeup and smiled.
“Pass me my book,” she said, and Candy handed it to her – À la recherche du temps perdu. “Proust’s finest,” her mother had beamed upon presenting her with the first-edition that past Christmas, and Amelia admitted she had enjoyed it thoroughly thus far. It was a lovely summer read, undemanding and light, and she had promised to lend it to Annamaria once finished.
Amelia was buried in the story when her phone rang and thrust her from the Frenchman’s world.
“Hello?” she said.
“Hello, Amelia.” her mother replied, evidently unappreciative of her daughter’s tone.
“Mother, I’m in Monaco.”
“I know.” the woman said sourly. “I am at your fitting for the coronation.”
“What coronation?” Amelia asked.
“The King’s!”
“Mother, Joe is the president. If you called him king again, just have Melinda send flowers to his office. I’m sure he doesn’t mind by now.”
“King Charles, Amelia. Why did you not fly in for your fitting to attend the coronation of King Charles III?”
“Oh, him.”
“Yes, him!”
“Can’t I just wear something I have?”
Her mother was silent for a moment. “Is it your life’s goal to send me to an early grave, Amelia? You are to be dressed in vintage Vivienne Westwood. Jane Taylor is waiting on the line to speak to you about fabrics. The helicopter is making a water landing in no more than six minutes, you will board, and I will see you in two hours at the shop.”
Amelia made her excuses to Candy, who was horribly disappointed at first but less so when she learned their yacht was to join with Peter and Eleanor’s ship for a quick snorkeling scavenger-hunt. Amelia was in London by nightfall, and back in Monaco before the sun rose the next morning.
She did not go on a run.
When it came time to attend the King’s coronation, Amelia was dressed in her finery with all the aristocracy and stars. The ceremony was rather long, and she would have loved to whisper to her friends the many, many thoughts that ran through her mind (Camilla’s dress was a pittance compared to those worn by the duchesses of the Order of the Alamo just a few days prior), but their mothers seemed to have conferenced before the event, and instead made sure their daughters sat next to each of them, respectively. When it was finally over, the Chief Yeoman Warder discreetly asked if Amelia might like to try on the Imperial State Crown when Camilla had tired of wearing it.
Her concert dress was even more fantastic than her coronation gown was elegant, and she was nearly-blind from the flash of paparazzi reporting her every move. Kate found her in her box, and apologised profusely for not having had her to tea in ages, for which Amelia was not upset. She made sure Catherine knew her statement with Lady Diana’s earrings and that “headpiece” had not gone unnoticed. When Harry popped in later on, they had a lovely chat about the many virtues of California, and Amelia lambasted the man for ever having considered Canada. The next morning she paid a visit to the palace, and found Louis absolutely ecstatic to see her, his only memory of being her last visit, during which she brought the royal children candy sculptures of themselves.
Amelia loved London, and she had nearly been convinced to stay by Catherine and Wills when Roise – the resident Irishwoman of their little group – sent an urgent message calling the entire lot away to Greece, where she had accidentally devalued the price of gold at a casino in Santorini and desperately needed saving.
I asked what happened next, but Amelia never replied. Someone called her name from another room, and she left her pink rotary phone hanging off the hook.
Love,
Lettie Anne